


Saturday Night

by Deannie



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1995-12-16
Updated: 1995-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:24:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deannie/pseuds/Deannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sent out to a Colorado small town to investigate a series of random rape-murders, Mulder and Scully discover the true power of Saturday Night in a town cursed with violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saturday Night

_Saturday 8:30 pm  
Death's Mount, Colorado_

When the sun went down, people locked their doors. When the moon came up, women looked in on their daughters, making sure they were safe. There were no female doctors or nurses on call in the wee hours, and the precious few female police officers stayed at home and locked their doors and windows--and kept their pistol safeties off. 

Another Saturday Night in Death's Mount. 

Sometimes, though, someone slipped. 

With a sharp sound in her throat, Becky Torres realized that tonight, it was her. 

She should have been home an hour ago. Her mother would be frantic. The sun was well down and she was alone--with him. 

Darren's breath came in tight little gasps now, his hands groping toward her in what, minutes ago, had seemed the spacious back seat of her car. 

"I need to go home now," she said desperately, pushing away from him, grasping the door handle. "It's late. I _have_ to get _home._ " 

Darren didn't hear her. All he heard was the singing of his blood, the longing in his groin. He lunged for her. 

And she was out of the car, running, her breath shortening painfully as she strove toward the woods. 

His wide receiver's legs stood him in good stead, as he closed the gap between them. 

"Darren!" she cried, half entreaty, half curse. 

A tree branch, thrown by the latest storm... She had it, finally, but he was on her, tearing at the skirt she had so recently lifted to him. 

They struck simultaneously, he reaching for her hips, she aiming for his head. The connections were equally brutal. 

His fevered eyes cleared, but only for a moment. Then he was at her again, punishing, swift. 

She had no idea how many times she'd hit him, no idea how long it took before the fever turned to pain, which turned to blackness. 

Her own pain forgotten, Becky crouched beside him on unsteady legs, painful hips crying for rest. 

"Darren?" She brushed a fall of long blonde hair from his slack features. "Darren? Please... please..." She laid a tender hand on the neck she'd battered, felt a light rhythm, in time with her own. 

Her tears fell heavily on his chest as she curled up beside him in the night. 

"I'm sorry, Darren," she cried softly. "I'm so sorry." 

_Thursday 8:45 pm  
Highway 58, Colorado_

The sign jumped out at her, large as life and twice as annoying. The final listing looked like an afterthought: Death's Mount 43 mi. 

She sighed as she passed it, looking thoughtfully at her partner, whose lanky bulk sat curled in the passenger's seat. 

"You know, Mulder," she mused quietly. "You're really not such a bad guy." 

"Thanks, Scully," he replied, hiding his surprise behind his sarcasm. "But I'm not sure I'm ready for a _serious_ relationship." 

She smiled sardonically. "I'm just trying to figure out how you managed to piss VCS off so completely." 

His voice was studied self-deprecation. "It took almost two years, Scully. Don't think it was easy." 

She didn't buy the self pity. Of course, he thought, a smile taking over his features, she wasn't meant to. 

"I thought we'd had some crap assignments before," she continued, ignoring the smirk, "but _this_? Multiple rape and murder is..." She lapsed into silence. 

Mulder straightened, concerned at her uneasy tone. "Scully... you didn't have to come." He paused as she tightened up. "I mean, if this is going to bother you--" 

Her slightly acid tone stopped him. "I _want_ to be bothered by something like this, Mulder," she said shortly. "I'll be fine." 

_9:30 pm  
Death's Mount, Colorado_

The rest of the trip was spent in silence, each agent sunk into his or her own thoughts. The flight and drive had been long, and all either of them wanted was a bed and a good night's sleep. 

The first lodging was... strange. The collection of mountain cabins looked pleasant enough, but... 

"Could we get two rooms through the weekend, please?" Mulder asked tiredly. 

The dowdy old woman looked them over; A beautiful young woman, bright red hair just slightly out of place, tired blue eyes examining the office, neat silk suit a neutral casing; a handsome young man, conservative suit and mismatchingly outrageous tie, cool hazel eyes both indifferent and penetrating. 

"We have only one cabin just now," she said apologetically. 

Mulder and Scully exchanged a look, a shrug--they'd stayed in worse. "If it has a couch, we'll take it." 

The woman's features closed down. "I'm sorry," she said definitively. 

Scully was amazed--and a little angry. Even if she would make the mistake of sleeping with her partner, was it any of this woman's business? "Ma'am," she said coldly, "I hardly think that..." she trailed off in astonishment as the old woman simply walked away from the desk. 

Scully was now both exhausted _and_ furious. She asked for two rooms at the local motel, her voice tight and angry. 

It was with an exasperated sigh that she looked down the hall to her partner some fifteen minutes later. He had been stationed six rooms away, though the rooms surrounding her own were clearly empty. "I think I already hate this town." 

Mulder shrugged noncommittally. "Small town living, Scully," he said with a smile. "We'll see the sheriff first thing tomorrow, okay?" 

She yawned, anger giving way to fatigue. "Fine. Night, Mulder." 

"Night." 

* * * 

_9:00 am Friday_

Death's Mount, for all its name, was actually a nice little town. Scully managed to relax slightly--not quite sure why she was nervous in the first place--until they reached the sheriff's office. 

A man, more than a little drunk, was coming out, just as they reached the door. He tried to hold it out for her in a clumsy gesture of gallantry, but overextended himself in the process, tilting into her. She stiffened, unaccountably unnerved. 

It was silly. Not as if she didn't run into two or three psychotic killers a month. Why would one drunken fisherman frighten her? 

She slipped around him hurriedly, giving herself a moment for composure before Mulder sidled past him as well. 

"You okay?" he asked, leaning in toward her. It was a move he often made, but this morning, it upset her. 

"I'm fine," she replied, forcing calm into her voice. _What's_ wrong _with me today?_

Sheriff Brae Collier was a younger, well-built man--perhaps thirty-five--with a receding hairline and suspicious eyes. He greeted them cordially enough, but a growl of frustration escaped him as he shut the  
office door. 

Mulder and Scully exchanged a look, but he caught it and quickly shook his head. 

"It's not you," he said, ushering them into the chairs that stood before his desk. "I just don't know how anything gets done in this town." They exchanged another look, this one confused. "Excuse me?" Scully asked. 

He looked over at them, taking a deep breath. "See, this isn't my usual territory. I'm the head deputy over in Crestone, and I drive in here five days a week to run the place." 

"Where's Death's Mount's sheriff?" 

He ran a hand through his short dark hair. "He was in a car accident last week--he's laid up in a rehab center in Pueblo." 

Mulder nodded him on. 

"Usually, I wouldn't need to call the FBI in on something like this," he said defensively. "But with this town..." 

Scully leaned forward, impatient. "What exactly is the problem?" 

Collier shook his head angrily, gesturing to the town outside his office. "Them! The police, the parents--Hell, the victim, for that matter." He all but threw the file at her, and, surprisingly, she jumped. "Rebecca Torres is the latest victim. The only one to survive, so far." He raised his hands to heaven in disbelief. "She beat her boyfriend half to death with a tree branch--and two days later, she's kissing him in his hospital bed!" 

Scully looked up. "You caught the rapist?" she asked angrily. _Then what the hell are we doing here?_

Collier started pacing. "This goes way beyond rape, Agent Scully," he said quietly, starting to pace. "I came in here toward the end of last week. The officers seem to be competent men and women... But when I got back here on Monday, I was told about the assault... I read the reports, and, frankly, I've never seen shoddier police work." He looked at them, pride straightening his shoulders. "Crestone isn't a large town, but we do at least know how to fill out an arrest report." 

Scully watched him pace back and forth for a moment. Just as she was about to ask him to go on, he turned back to them. "The evidence has been largely 'misplaced,' the arresting officer left half the procedures undone, and the victim won't even press charges." He ran his hand through his hair again. "Even if she did, with the police work the way it was... It's like... It's like they don't _want_ him to be prosecuted." 

Mulder looked up from the file that Scully had passed to him. "Are you saying you suspect the police department of being involved?" 

Collier sat heavily. "I don't know what I'm saying, Agent Mulder," he admitted tiredly. "All I know is that there have been five rapes--four murders--in the past month, and no one seems to want to do anything about it." He sighed. "And I am in a very difficult position." 

"How so?" Scully wanted to know. 

He took a moment to answer her. "Small town cops are a breed all our own, Agent Scully. We stick together. If I were to try to bring this thing down myself... I'd be out of a job in days." 

"So you want us to do it for you?" Mulder asked. When was he going to be free of people who wanted him to clean up _their_ messes? 

Collier speared him with candid eyes. "Exactly." He held up his hands in apology. "All I want, Agent Mulder, is to know what the Hell is going on in this town. If the police are somehow involved..." he shuddered away from the thought, turning back to the work. 

"I've set up appointments for you with the relatives of each of the victims, as well as with Darren Farnsworth and Becky Torres." He sighed again. "I'm not sure it's going to do you much good, but..." 

Scully stood up, impatient to get going. "Thank you, Sheriff Collier. We'll let you know as soon as we find anything." 

He handed them a business card with his home number in Crestone, telling them to call him any time. File in hand, Scully quitted the office as quickly as possible. 

* * * 

Mulder turned to her as they headed for the car, leaning in to ask quietly, "Should we go to the hospital first?" He backed off, confused, as her shoulders tightened. 

She relaxed immediately. _God, what the hell is this? This is_ Mulder _for God's sake!_ She gave him an apologetic look, gesturing to the sidewalk. "Can we get a cup of coffee?" She held up the file as he nodded. "I want a better idea of what we're dealing with before we talk to the families." 

The case made less and less sense as they went through it. Four weeks, five attacks. The coroner in Buena Vista, the nearest town of any size, stated each cause of death as massive blood loss due to 'violent intercourse.'" Scully couldn't think of a worse way to die. 

As Collier had said, in each case, the police work covered only the bare minimum--sometimes not even that. When Sally Perkins met her death, all the police report said was that she was found in the woods, obviously raped, obviously dead, and her family had no accounting for her whereabouts for the entire evening before hand. No evidence, no leads. Each case just dried up. 

What do you think?" Scully asked, sipping discontentedly at her coffee. 

Mulder looked up from the file. "No similarity in age--17 to 34... But all were attacked sometime between 8 and midnight on Saturday night... All were single..." His head snapped back to the file suddenly. "Do we know who their boyfriends are?" 

Scully looked a little incredulous. "Five prospective rapists in a population of two hundred and fourteen, Mulder?" 

He shook his head at her, as if to say, stranger things have happened. 

The sad part was, they had. 

* * * 

_6:30 pm_

Scully was too sick to eat. She shook her head at her partner as they nursed coffee in the motel's diner, seeing her own revulsion mirrored in his eyes. "I can't believe this." 

"You'd think in a small town like this, they'd be less... flippant... about it," he agreed. 

All the parents had been sorrowful, but none seemed to be angry. If anything, they seemed to feel that the women had led themselves to it. "Girls just don't watch themselves anymore," seventeen-year-old Sally Perkins's mother had said, a little heartlessly, to Scully's ears. "In my day we'd never stay out with a boy on a Saturday night." 

Most disturbing, though, was Rebecca Torres. Still in obvious pain from the attack, she stood steadfastly by Darren Farnsworth, warding off their difficult questions. "It wasn't his fault," she said quietly, looking at him with a love that made Scully physically ill. "Boys just get out of hand sometimes." 

A snapshot of the evidence pictures sprang to Mulder's mind. It had been a vicious attack. It wasn't out of hand--more like out of his mind. 

"I've never seen victim transference as strong as Becky's before," Scully said, disbelieving. "She honestly feels he did nothing really wrong." She shuddered at the sentiment. 

Mulder ran an angry hand through his hair. "Did you notice how all of the parent's seemed to think that it was the victims' fault for going out that night? Saturday night specifically." 

Scully nodded. "Yes, that was strange." 

Mulder sighed. "I'm beginning to agree with you about this town," he said, standing tiredly. "I'm starting to think this was a really bad idea." 

She stood as well, standing not too close to him. She had been incredibly nervous all day, and had no idea where most of it was coming from. "I'm going to sleep, Mulder," she said quietly, slipping past him, using as wide a berth as possible. She stiffened as he caught her arm. 

"Scully?" he asked, letting her go immediately. She had never acted like this with him. It was almost like... almost like she was afraid of him. 

She turned back, angry at herself for worrying him. "This case is just getting to me, Mulder, all right?" She reached out to grasp his arm lightly. "It's not you." 

She tried very hard to get herself to believe it as she dressed for bed that night. 

* * * 

_2:30 am  
Saturday_

Mulder came awake, puzzled. Something had been working at his brain all night. It had taken him a long time to figure out what it was, but now that he saw it, he knew it was significant. 

Saturday night. 

What if that was the connection? _Okay, Mulder... If it is the connection, what's it mean?_ Mulder shook his head, and slid out from under the covers, rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he did. 

He paced, considering waking Scully up to talk this through. No. She was sleeping, unlike him. There was no need to wake her with something like this--an unformed thought with an indefinite conclusion.  
All right. Saturday night. Kids went out and had a good time... They maybe played around a little in the back seat of the car... Maybe a little too much-- 

_Great, Mulder. You've got a typical situation. This happens in every town throughout the world. So what?_

He wondered what the history of Death's Mount was. He wondered if there was anything interesting behind the name. He really wondered whether Scully was awake, so he could talk with her about it. 

Against his better judgment, he padded down the hall to her room. 

His knock was soft--he didn't want to intrude--but the door flew open a moment afterward, Scully standing there, a little wild-eyed. 

"You okay, Scully?" he asked, concerned by her dishevelment. 

"Yeah," she said, a little breathless, a little scared. "Come on in. I just... had a bad dream." 

She couldn't tell him the truth. They were partners--that's all--and she couldn't tell him that she had had an erotic dream about _him._ Especially not when it had been so dark... so disturbing. 

"What do you need?" she asked, pulling her hair away from her face, tying it carelessly with a nearby elastic. 

"I was just thinking," Mulder mused, seating himself in the chair, watching her as she regained her composure. He wondered what the nightmare was, but didn't think it right to ask. "How did Death's Mount get it's name?" 

She looked at him blankly. "The mystery of how Death's Mount got it's name woke you up at two-thirty in the morning?" 

"Was it a joke," he continued, ignoring the question. "A curse, what?" 

She pursed her lips, twisting them wryly. "So a curse is causing all these girls to be raped? The Grim Reaper out for a good time?" 

He shook his head, embarrassed. "It just makes me wonder, Scully. All of the assaults happened during the late evening on Saturday nights." 

She was a little angry, truth be told. He had awakened her from that disturbing dream, and for that she was thankful, but if he was going to sit here and spout curse theories at her... 

"Go to bed, Mulder," she said abruptly. He looked up at her, a little hurt. "*Go* to *bed,* she repeated firmly. "It's the middle of the night, and I'm not in the mood for this." She led him to the door, and he noticed that she was still careful not to touch him too much. "Get some sleep... Let *me* get some sleep. We'll talk about it in the morning." 

He watched, dumbfounded, as the door closed. She wasn't often so brusque with him. Sure, she usually thought his theories were out there, but she did at least try to reason with him. He wondered what was wrong. 

_You woke her up at two-thirty in the morning to tell her you think this town is cursed, Mulder... What the hell do you expect?_

Scully stood with her back to the door for a moment, catching her breath. This was stupid! She'd never had a problem with Mulder before. He was a nice guy, but that was it. She should *not* be having dreams about him, and she definitely should not be afraid of him. 

She shook her head angrily. Damn it. Contrary to what she had told Mulder, she knew she'd never get back to sleep now. But she sure as hell didn't want to think about this--whatever *this* was. So she lay on the bed, trying not to think about it. 

She slept eventually, fitfully, waking just in time to meet Mulder for breakfast. 

* * * 

"So we check out the curse today?" she smiled, more at ease this morning. 

"Scully," he said irritably. "It's a theory." 

She nodded sagely as she sipped the coffee he'd had waiting for her. "What do you want to do?" 

He thought a minute. "I guess you check the newspaper morgue and the library." 

"What about you?" 

"I want to check the police reports for the last few weeks." He ducked his head slightly. "I have a hunch." 

The way he said it made her sure that she'd be in the dark until he had a better idea of just what he was talking about. "Okay. I'll go by the library first, see what I can dig up," she said, rising from her half-eaten breakfast. "Why don't we meet back here at 6:30?" 

He nodded, and walked out with her. 

_6:45 pm_

"You're late," he all but whined as she slid into the booth. 

"Sorry, but I found something very interesting." 

"So did I," he replied, pulling out a sheaf of Xeroxed police reports. 

"What are those?" she asked, picking them up and glancing through them. 

"Suicides for the past month." 

"The past *month?*" There had to six or seven of them. "Isn't this town going to run out of people soon?" 

"Maybe," he conceded, focused on his theory. "Every one of them was male, and every one killed himself on..." 

"Saturday night?" she finished, amazed. "That's really weird Mulder, because I talked to the head librarian for about five hours today, and she told me a lot of things--including how this town got its name."  
Mulder looked at her expectantly. 

"The original group of settlers were puritans. They set up the town about 1884. Wanted it to be a bastion of morality in the untamed West." She smiled slightly at the parochialism. "Anyway, about ten years later, a young couple passed through on their way to California--a young, *unmarried* couple." 

"Oh." 

She nodded. "The town constable strung them both up in a fit of religious fervor, but before she died, the woman--Miss Caroline Brekan--tried to put a sort of curse on the town." She smiled at his raised eyebrows. "She swore that she and her man would get revenge--that if the people here wanted to be pure, their ghosts would do their part to tempt them. Death would come on his mount to those who had killed them." 

She looked up at him seriously. "They were hung at sundown on Saturday." 

_8:30 pm_

Mulder paced his room, wanting more than anything to forget what Scully had told him at dinner. His head hurt, and there was an uncomfortable sensation building in him. 

A lust. A carnal, vicious lust. 

He didn't believe it--wouldn't. Legends were legends because they just weren't *true.* A ghost couldn't simply urge a man into sexual acts. It just couldn't happen. 

It was just men, he thought, trying desperately to concentrate on the thoughts instead of on the images that flashed through his increasingly fevered brain. Just men. 

Because a man killed them? Because men were naturally more prone to unthinking lust? 

Or because, he thought, slowing his pace a bit, men could do more damage? 

He stepped up the pace again. The images came faster now, and they were all her. Scully sitting at the computer, quietly typing up her notes while he tried to avoid paperwork--Scully walked ahead of him, gun drawn, watching out for him as he watched out for her. Her suits, her hair, her eyes--it wouldn't *stop!* 

He couldn't think about this. He knew it. It was going to drive him crazy, because he just couldn't have her--couldn't _have_ her. She was his partner. Male or female, attraction or no attraction, partners were partners and they just couldn't have anything to do with each other that way. 

But her face... the way she looked at him sometimes--compassion, disbelief, and trust all in one, was so *sexy!* She was only a few doors down, he realized, reason slipping uneasily away. Only a few doors.  
He reached for the door, suddenly slamming his fist hard into it instead, a wave of reason crashing painfully over him. He thought he heard something crack, but the pain was good. It kept his mind off of her... Off of the red hair and the blue eyes and the petite figure and-- 

He slammed his hand against the door again, this time coming away from the dent he'd left. 

Oh God. Oh, the noise! Scully was going to hear it, and she was going to come and make sure he was okay, and he just knew that if he saw her... If he saw her-- 

The knock pierced the darkness, and her voice, "Mulder?" Oh dear God, her voice--like a sweet, low thrum, a beautiful red-plumed bird with eyes that... Unheedful of the noise it made, his fist once again connected, the pain detaching him slightly from himself. 

"Mulder?" she called again, her tone all but driving him crazy. "Mulder, what's going on in there?" She brought it up a notch. "Mulder, let me in." 

"No, Scully!" he cried out, trying to hide the longing for her. Trying not to think about how easy it would be to just let her in... Let her in and then-- 

Fist on wood. That was all he could do. Fist on wood, fist on wood, fist on wood. 

"Mulder, what the hell is going on in there!" Scully stood before the motel room, gun drawn, indecisive. She couldn't shoot out the lock--he was right there. The bullet would go straight through that flimsy door and straight through him. 

"Mulder, open the damn door!" she yelled in frustration, amazed that no one had appeared to ask just what the hell was going on. 

Mulder hit it again, relishing the pain that took his mind off of her. This was what the curse meant. It was real, it was happening, and-- 

His hand finally went through the door, and he could hear the little bark of surprise that Scully let out. 

"Mulder," she said, that voice of hers hardening as she saw his bloody hand. "Stand back! Let me in or I'm going to shoot the lock out!" 

"NO!" He connected with the door again, higher, feeling the broken wood give slightly. He couldn't let her in. Flashes of the evidence photos ran through his mind. It was happening to him, and he couldn't do it. Not to her--not to anyone--not *ever!* He had to stop her from getting near him, had to stop it from taking him, from making him do-- 

He abandon the door, grabbing his gun and wrapping his broken hand around it. 

He couldn't let her near him. He couldn't let it happen. Not to her. 

The lock came out with one very loud gunshot, and she was there. Standing before him, clad only in her blue satin pajamas, her red hair floating around her. God, she was beautiful! He wanted to take her in his arms and-- 

"Stay away, Scully!" The gun shook in time with his throbbing hand, but it pointed itself at her, and he knew he would shoot her if she tried to come close. Better dead than... "Go away, Scully," he begged, in tears now that she was there with him. "Please just go away!" 

She stood staring at him, flabbergasted at the sight. "Mulder what's going on?" 

Her voice was so gentle... He tightened his grip on the Sig, relishing the pain as the bones of his hand scraped against each other. "It's real, Scully," he whispered painfully. "It's real. The curse... the-- it's *real.*" 

Scully advanced slowly, stopping as he steadied his gun. "Mulder, please," she said quietly. "Your hand's broken. Let me help you." 

He shook his head violently. "It'll happen again, Scully. It'll happen! It'll be you this time. I can't-- can't--" 

Scully dropped her gun carelessly to the floor, advancing another step. "Mulder, it's a *legend!* It's not real." She held out her hand, clamping down on her fear. "Mulder, you won't hurt me." 

"I CAN'T STOP IT!" he screamed, the pain in his voice enough to start her own tears flowing. She'd never seen him like this. Never seen him so out of control. 

She'd never have thought it possible. 

"Mulder," she said soothingly, moving toward a chair well away from the bed. "Mulder, you can stop it. You can stop it. Just... just talk to me. Tell me what's happening." 

He shook his head again. "No. Go away!" The gun wavered, sliding toward its owner. "Go *away!*" he begged in a whisper, knowing now how those suicides had come to their decisions. 

_Oh God! He's going to kill himself!_ She lunged for him before the thought was fully formed, wrenching the gun from his bloody hand. There was a wildness in his eyes--something unnatural. She jumped back as he lunged for her, bringing him down with a well placed kick. 

The distance she had put between them was not nearly enough, he realized as he picked himself up off the floor. "Scully, you don't understand." He tried not to look at her, at the concern in her face. That beautiful face. 

Fist on wood, fist on wood, fist on wood. The dresser groaned under his onslaught, and he could hear Scully moving behind him. He couldn't think about that. Fist on wood, fist on wood, fist on wood. 

With one quick practiced move, Scully had one of his wrists in the handcuffs. She hit him squarely in the back, rolling him over on the ground to attach the other cuff. Her speed wasn't enough as he grabbed for her, but a well placed kick set her free. 

She stood there, tears in her eyes, as he gasped for breath. She'd seen agents lose it before--fine, seasoned agents, old-timers. She never seen anything like this before. 

Except in her dreams... 

Last night's dream came to her, crystal clear. He had been there, as had she. This motel room... 

She looked back at him now, staring miserably at her, and was terrified of him. 

When she fled the room, he prayed she'd stay away, but moments later, she was back, a needle in her hand, a clear liquid hovering inside. 

She approached him warily, willing her hand not to shake as she neared him. "Mulder," she said quietly, trying to inject comfort around her fear. "Mulder, I'm going to give you something that will help you sleep. Don't fight me." 

Yes. Yes, sleep was what he needed. If he slept, then it would be Sunday soon, and he knew, somewhere in his fevered brain, that Sunday would be better. He nodded, stretching out his hands meekly. Hands that desperately wanted to grab hold of her and... 

Scully watched carefully until he was all the way under. Only then did she take a breath. 

* * * 

_11:15 am Sunday  
Death's Mount, Colorado_

The first thing he saw when he woke was the door--the whole, unmolested door. The first thing he smelled was her perfume on the sheets that covered him. 

He sat up, violently disoriented, trying to shake the last strands of cobweb from his mind. 

Could he have...? No. He remembered now. She had given him a sedative. He would have been out cold. He couldn't have done anything. 

He looked around--her bag on the floor, her pajamas folded neatly on a chair--the one furthest from the bed he sat on. 

God. What had he done? What had he *almost* done? He took a deep breath and tried to throw off the bedsheets. He stopped after a hazy moment, staring at his hand, encased in plaster, two fingers sheathed in metal and foam for good measure. 

Oh God. 

He pulled himself up off the bed with his clumsy left hand, wondering how he was supposed to shower with this cast on, wondering how Scully had managed to drag him to her room... wondering where Scully was, and just how mad. 

God, he felt filthy--and it had nothing to do with the dried sweat that covered him. It was what he remembered. The lust, the fear, the door, the handcuffs... the gun. 

He could have killed her. One way or another, she could have been lying in a morgue--because of him. The curse was real. He knew that now. There was no explanation, no science behind it. Just a very real curse that had almost cost Scully her life. 

What did she think? He had seen the fear in her eyes last night, an intense mirror of his own. Curse or no curse, she'd never forgive him. 

As if the thought brought the figure, Scully slipped in past the door, stopping dead as she saw him standing awkwardly by the window. 

"Scully," he began, arms outstretched. He had absolutely no idea how to finish it. 

She stayed close to the door, broadcasting uncertainty. She was afraid that last night wasn't an isolated incident--that it was the beginning of a breakdown that would destroy him. She still feared for herself--feared what he might do--but she feared for him more. 

"I called Sheriff Collier this morning," she said quietly. "Our plane leaves in four hours." 

She busied herself with packing, always a wary eye on him. He seemed less wild today. He seemed embarrassed. "You'd better hurry up and pack. It's a long drive." 

"We're leaving?" 

She stabbed him with frightened blue eyes. "We're leaving. I called Skinner and he wants you in for a psych exam first thing tomorrow morning." 

He turned all the way around, staring at her, a look of utter betrayal in his eyes. "Scully, you can't just--" 

"I *can,*" she said, shocked by the coldness in her voice. She softened, part of her afraid, part needing to reach out, to help him. "Mulder," she said carefully, "do you know how many bones you broke last night?" 

"Is this a test?" he asked bitterly. 

"Five," she stated softly. "Five bones. You drew your gun on another agent--" 

"You didn't tell *Skinner* that?" he asked, horrified. 

"Of course not--But Mulder, you could have killed me." She took a deep breath, voice dying slightly. "You very nearly killed yourself." 

He looked down, studying the patterns of light on his plastered arm. "What about the case?" 

She threw up her hands in sudden anger. "Damn it, Mulder, forget the case! The case is what got you in this position in the first place!" 

He turned away, letting her anger sink in for a moment, unable to face her. He felt her come up behind him, felt her hand on his back; timid, scared. He felt none of the lust he had last night--none of the violence. All that was left now was a cold sorrow that she should ever be afraid of him. 

"Scully," he said quietly. "I'm so sorry about last night. If... if I had..." 

"You didn't. You didn't kill yourself, and you didn't kill me." 

He turned toward her, a look of surprise hiding in his eyes. She didn't understand. She didn't know what it was he had really wanted last night. All his ravings had been taken as just that--ravings. She'd never know how close he came to... 

"You scared me to death last night, Mulder," she continued quietly, her hand now resting lightly on his arm, her voice compassionate. It made him even more guilty. She didn't even know what she was giving him absolution for. "Mulder, you can't let every case get inside you like this. You can't..." 

She had trailed off at the look in his eyes. He looked so embarrassed. And guilty. What did he have to be guilty for? "Last night wasn't your fault, Mulder. You've done it before--put so much focus on the perpetrators that you begin to identify with them." She took a deep breath. "But, Mulder, you have to get some distance. If every case wraps you up like this..." 

His mind churned. That was all she thought it was--a nervous breakdown from an agent that was famous for them. Mad old Spooky Mulder went off the deep end again. God, if she only knew... But she couldn't. He couldn't tell her what had really happened last night. She would accept the breakdown, live with it. She'd never speak to him again if she knew what he had been thinking last night--and he was beginning to realize how lost he would be without her, his partner of so few months--the only person he trusted. 

So he told her what she wanted to hear. It was so easy. He had done it most of his life. He knew the script by heart. 

"It was... I can't stop it sometimes, Scully. Their thoughts, their feelings... It's so easy to identify with them." 

"I know, Mulder," she said. "It's what makes you a good agent, but you can't let it destroy you like this." 

He nodded sheepishly, angry at himself for not trying to tell her the truth of it, but more relieved that she believed what she did. 

He went home meekly, told the psychologists just what they wanted to hear. After a few session of the old game, he got clearance for active duty, as he knew he could. He played the game very well, and no one ever knew. 

He spent a little free time researching Death's Mount in the next few weeks. It was coming up on the hundredth anniversary of Brekan's death--in fact, he realized, the assaults had begun 100 years to the week that she and her companion had entered Death's Mount. He wasn't surprised when the assaults mysteriously stopped as the anniversary of her hanging passed. 

It was the perfect X-File, he mused, sitting back quietly in his chair, trying to avoid paperwork. It was an X-File he could never tell anyone about. An X-File that had almost destroyed the only sane thing in his life. He looked over at Scully, who sat, glasses bouncing computer light off the walls, typing up yet another report. 

Thank God he hadn't ruined this. Without Scully, he wondered what he would do. 

"Do you want to get some lunch, Scully?" 

She looked up at the clock, then at him, apologetic. "I can't Mulder. I'm meeting a friend from the academy." 

"Really? Who?" 

"Tom Colton. He's in Violent Crimes." 

"The one who nailed that profile on the serial killer last month?" Mulder was impressed. 

"Yeah," she replied, proud of her former classmate. "We're just going to rehash old times. Nothing special..." 

* * *  
The End

FANDOM: X-Files  
RATING: R  
ORIENTATION: Gen 


End file.
